


Other Things

by helenagray



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, This is my therapy, briame forever, post 8x03, there's going to be a part 4, there's no convincing me they aren't madly in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-02-23 20:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18709429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenagray/pseuds/helenagray
Summary: She couldn’t bring herself to look up, but suddenly his hand was in front of her, reaching. He drew it up, gently connecting with her chin and lifting it upward until she had no choice but to look at him directly.Did she look more terrified than she had when gazing out at the army of the dead? She tried not to. This was Jaime, she reminded herself. He’d fought at her side, endured with her, survived with her. She could look at him, surely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I truly couldn't function this week without working on something post 8x03. Apologies to my job, my family, for me having my head in the clouds all week, and, well, I'll be honest -- it's not going to end any time soon!
> 
> Part 2 is coming soon (late tonight, I hope). I have go do some "life stuff" (grr! If only we could just fandom all day!), and then I need to finish up, review, and post. It'll be up before 8x04, for sure.
> 
> Lastly, this is my first time posting in this realm, so be gentle, please. <3 
> 
> Speaking of first times... ;)  
> 

 

The Great Hall was packed — bodies pressed together; standing, leaning. Crammed on benches around long wooden tables — a gathering of the living; those well enough, four days now past their long night.

The losses were great — the absences heavy, even in a room so full — and as the ale flowed, they raised glasses, shared silences, in honor of the fallen. 

But there was also much to celebrate. They had won, prevailing against the worst of odds, and as more ale and bread and cheese were passed, the living did what the living do: they ate, they drank, they laughed and carried on, reveling in the unlikely feat of another day drawing breath. 

Brienne sat neat the center the room with Pod and some of the other men they’d fought with, and she made a hearty go of it, welcoming the ale as it came her way, laughing and enjoying the banter. 

After a time, a subtle gnawing in the back of her mind became insistent, and she turned to scan the hall. _He should have come by now._

When she spotted him, Jaime was a tall, uncanny figure at the back of the crowd, the glass in his hand looking more like an accessory than a beverage he was enjoying. She caught his gaze and gestured for him to come to the table, but he merely acknowledged her with a nod and a light smile that seemed to say she should continue on without him. 

A raucous at the front of the room drew her attention away, and by the time she looked back again, he was gone, his space filled in with people she didn’t know.  

Her smile, which had grown broad with the ale and the merriment, fell slack.

She saw Pod studying her from the corner of her eye. He leaned in, his voice raised so she could hear. “He’s not coming?”

She scoffed, dismissing the idea that she should care, but the boy knew her well — and even she could see that her reaction was born of habit more than anything. Pod had known for a long while that Jaime was important to her. And they had both been there when he had collapsed at the end of the fight, dropping like the dead had — when Brienne had screamed his name and rushed to his side, falling to her knees to search, desperately, for his mortal injury. Pod had watched helplessly, fearing for her to lose him. 

But then Jaime had stirred — alive. Weary — scarred and beaten and bruised, covered with the grime of death and battle, as all three of them were — but alive. 

She put a hand on Pod’s shoulder. “You stay. Enjoy yourself.”

He nodded respectfully — nothing but care for her — and Brienne downed the last of her ale. With effort, she rose and made her way through the crowd, exiting at the back where Jaime must have. 

The party spilled into the passageways, with thinner packs of revelers scattered about and some more intimate meetings of lovers, tucked in corners — touching and whispering in ways that made Brienne look away, even as she knew and understood what it was: the living _living_ ; being _alive,_ in every way they could. 

Most of the corpses had been removed and burned or interred — a solemn, heavy task that had taken many days and still continued — but debris and structural damage still made navigating Winterfell haphazard in spots. 

She thought over places he might have gone until instinct led her, carefully, to the Godswood. 

Focused effort here had left the sacred space looking better than many other parts of the fortress, but the scars of death and battle were still visible, wrought in the earth in dark patches and divots. 

Jaime sat beneath the heart tree, nearly hidden from her view as she entered the space, only one of his bent legs visible from where she stood — easily recognizable to her. 

She angled in his direction in a wide arc toward the tree, and then paused several feet away to observe him. His head was tilted back against the trunk, and it looked as though his eyes were closed. Exhausted still, no doubt. Body recovering from the exertion of battle, even now; wounds — the bites, the cuts and bruises — still healing. 

But it wasn’t those things that had drawn him here, away from the gathering, and Brienne swallowed hard against a swell of dread, that they might broach the weighty topic now. 

Then she reminded herself, chiding — she’d come out here by choice. 

She shuffled in the dirt a bit, stepping closer, and he turned at the sound, his gaze low, and then high. He sprang to his feet as her presence registered — a habit as ingrained in him as breathing, she imagined — and greeted her, the _Ser_ rolling off his tongue effortlessly (and still making her breath catch in her chest).

His eyebrows were slightly raised, but he didn’t look disturbed to see her. 

“You left the party,” she said by way of greeting.

One side of his mouth rose slightly in a crooked almost-smile. “Too crowded. Hall was overbooked. Maybe the next one, eh? If I can get there early enough. Get a good seat.”

The humor was easy but empty, and she watched as he saw her looking at him, seeing him. _Knowing._ He let out a sharp sigh. 

“Look, I know what comes next. And I know that right now, they are cheering and rallying with the Dragon Queen, thrilling at their next task _—_ which happens to be a assault on my former home and the certain death of my twin sister.”

Her shoulders tensed reflexively at his words but she took them in — didn’t push them away, as she was wont to do when he talked of Cersei. 

“What will you do?” she asked simply — almost innocently — but they both heard what she meant to say: _Will you go back?_

He sighed again, and then paced about in a small circle, turning toward the tree, then back. When he stilled to look at her, his eyes were intense and she drew in a sharp breath. Held it, bracing for… _something._

“I’ve left that life behind, Brienne. I said goodbye — left it all on the King’s Road, on my way here.” He gestured southward, raising his natural hand, palm flat, as if for emphasis. “But you’ll forgive me if I don’t cheer and celebrate in _quite the way_ that everyone else does.”

She took a step towards him, almost without realizing it — her instinct to protect, to shield. She stopped herself and tried — failed — to find some useful words. Instead she stuttered unintelligibly, something that might have been “I know” or “I understand” if it had actually come out right.

As he watched her try, something in him softened. She saw the line of his jaw relax, his shoulders rise and fall as he took in a long breath and released it, and something in her slackened, as well — ever slightly.

He laughed lightly and shook his head. She couldn’t read him — didn’t know what was funny — but she waited, patient, for him to tell her; or not.

The moment stretched, and Brienne found herself tuned in suddenly to the rustling of the leaves on the big tree beside them. So much had happened beneath its branches — in these recent days and, she imagined, in many days of the long-distant past. 

Jaime shifted on his feet and now he was regarding her, his eyes slightly narrowed — scrutinizing her?

She felt her pulse quicken, the way it could, the way it did, when he looked at her just so. That she could face down the army of the dead, slaying hundreds without hesitation, and still find her nerves and fear bearing down at the gaze of one man was absurd. _(And yet…)_

He broke away, looked at the ground for a moment, then back. 

“I, uh. I never thanked you. For allowing me to fight at your side. Vouching for me. You could have just as easily…” He broke off, shaking his head agnostically. “You saved me. Again.”

“We saved each other. Many times. Days ago in battle, and time and again, in the past,” Brienne said, finding her voice suddenly. 

“That is very generous of you, my lady. _Ser_.” 

“It’s not generous, it’s the truth. You know it is. Accept it.” 

His face flickered with amusement. He knew that tone; that it was not to be questioned. “Very well. But I fear our count, as it were, is going to become rather lopsided and convoluted in the coming days, for I will need you now more that ever.” 

Her brow furrowed, then lifted, gathering what she could make of his meaning. “I will not shirk from my duty. And I will always have your back when we go to battle, Jaime. There is no ‘count’ between us.”

He shook his head. “Not quite what I meant, but I echo the sentiment. We are good, you and I. Side by side. Three good hands and warrior instincts — the dead should _shudder_ to face us again.” 

She smiled tightly. They had been practically inseparable that night, operating in tandem like a single, deadly force, and at times it had felt like they were psychically linked, so in tune were they with each other. But she was haunted still by the memory of what she had been sure were their final moments — the instant when they had gone from fighting a battle to desperately losing one, pinned against a wall and overrun by the dead. They had put everything out there then — every last ounce of strength and force — knowing with what felt like certainty that it would be their last act. She could still see, still feel the ferocity of him; could still hear the sound of him crying out, screaming. And she could still feel her desperation, hear her own screams as she had willed her weary arms to strike, to fight, down to the last of her.

There had been no time for regrets. That she would die by Jaime’s side was the only solace. 

But then they didn’t die, and the shock and confusion of it all had set her head spinning. And then she thought he died, but he didn’t, and… 

He must have read her thoughts, or else was troubled by his own. 

“Well. Let’s hope we never do that again.”

She released the breath she’d been holding, exhaling sharply, and worked to force the thoughts away. “Agreed. Let us _not_ do that again.”

They were silent for a time, and she thought about trying to convince him to go back to the party. But in her heart of hearts she knew better. She tried to imagine what it must be like in his place, standing here on the side that would destroy his — 

Why did she always struggle with the word? It was _lover —_ she was his lover; former or not. Sister, _lover_. She said the word in her head now, harshly. It was only the truth. 

“Will you go back?” she said suddenly, the words emerging before she she could stop them. 

He glared at her, eyebrows high — befuddled. “Have you heard _nothing_ that I’ve said? Are my words so meaningless to you that you would write them off, just like that?” 

He wasn’t angry, exactly — it was more…disappointment? 

“No, I know,” she said quickly, addled. “I’m sorry. It was just… I guess some part of me still… Still prepares…for that…”

He sighed and kicked at the dirt absently, reminding her something of a little boy. He stared down at the swirling dust, as if he hoped to find some treasure there. 

“I don’t blame you. I had only hoped…” He shook his head, then stilled.

“To answer your question — again,” he said, straightening. “No — I won’t go back. Like I said before, that life is over. Those aren’t just words, Brienne.” 

She folded her arms across her chest, wincing ever slightly as her sore shoulder protested, and some part of her girded for talk of his regrets and his loss.

“I came to Winterfell, Brienne, because… Because I finally figured out how to follow my heart.” 

She blinked, perplexed.

He released a exasperated sigh — ran his good hand through his hair. “You sure don’t make this easy.” 

She glared at him through narrowed eyes. “What? What don’t I make easy?”

He ignored her question, continued on his train of thought. “I know I am…a tainted man. _Unworthy_.”

“Jaime, what in the name of the Gods…?”

Now he laughed — threw his hands into the air, mock-surrender. “I suppose I deserve this.” 

He regarded her — she his tall companion-knight. Her brow was furrowed. Dubious. 

“Will you walk with me?” He looked around the grove. “I could stand to get out of this place.”

She nodded, relieved, somehow, at the thought of motion. 

He led them through the smaller trees, to the far gate, then out — beyond the walls and into the grassy field that surrounded the northern stronghold. Mutually, they turned to the south, away from the battle ground. In the near distance was a mixed forest, trees spread wide across the horizon, parted only where the King’s Road spilt it up the middle. Still wordless, it seemed to be their destination. 

The sun was in the low position of late day. Not warm, exactly, but the air no longer had a biting chill and, after recent days, bordered on pleasant. If Brienne were being honest, it did feel good to get outside of the walls — and with no threats to face. She was a southerner at heart, a child of the Stormlands — Winterfell suited her no more than it did Jaime. She could survive nearly anywhere, but the dark and cold of the north and the dreariness of the Stark fortress left her feeling weary at times. 

A breeze streamed from the southeast; fresh and reassuring. Brienne allowed herself a moment to enjoy it, breathing deeply and relaxing into the familiarity of being at Jaime’s side. They walked in companionable silence, she thought perhaps he similarly appreciating the moment. 

When they came to the edge of the forest after climbing a small hill, they stopped and turned back. The whole of Winterfell and the field of their long night were visible. Black scars marked the fiery destruction of dragons and in the distance, large pyres still smoked, ashes of the dead and the fallen still drifting, rejoining the land. Most of the people inside the walls were still celebrating, but some worked, clearing debris, rebuilding broken structures — the distant sound of hammer strokes a sign of their resilience. 

And, still so improbable, stretching across the expanse of land and sky, the late day itself, free from the darkest horrors of the world.

They sat on the hill, the trees behind them, and watched the scene for a while. 

Brienne knew their earlier conversation was not ended, but she thought the open air, the view from here would inspire perspective. She could raise her hand at nearly arm’s length and block out most of Winterfell, and somehow that made everything seem both more fragile and more extraneous. 

“Such a hard place. A hard people,” Jaime said, his voice philosophical, if a bit distant. “Survivors, though. The Starks. Their compatriots. They will do okay in the south, I think.” 

Brienne turned sharply to look at him, but drew in a breath before speaking. “And you? Where will you go?” Not back, she knew, but certainly not to the fight.

She watched him stare into the distance then turned to follow his gaze. She couldn’t help but to marvel at the blue of the sky — a shade all but lost to them these past many months — and the light, puffy clouds, drifting slowly. Innocent of all that had transpired just days before. 

She felt him look at her suddenly, and it was a moment before he spoke. 

“I will go…where you go. If you will allow it.” 

She turned. “But I will go south with the rest. I didn’t think… I didn’t think you would join the fight.” 

“I will,” he said simply. “I won’t pretend it will be an easy thing; but I would fight beside you still.”

She stared at him, silent, and watched as his lips formed into a light, wistful smile. “I dare say I would hardly know what to do with myself now, without you there, keeping me in line.”

She scoffed — a knee-jerk reaction she couldn’t help. “I’m certain you would get along just fine, Ser Jaime.” Her eyes fell to the ground just between them, but his gaze remained fixed on her, and she could feel it — adamant. Piercing her in a way that made her flustered and uncomfortable. And other things.

_“Oh, but I wouldn’t.”_

She couldn’t bring herself to look up, but suddenly his hand was in front of her, reaching. He drew it up, gently connecting with her chin and lifting it upward until she had no choice but to look at him directly. 

Did she look more terrified than she had when gazing out at the army of the dead? She tried not to. _This was Jaime,_ she reminded herself. He’d fought at her side, endured with her, survived with her. She could look at him, surely. 

When he spoke next, his voice was low — his eyes soft but resolute. 

“I know it is too much to hope for — a life, redeemed. But I find it is what I want, just the same.” 

Her eyes were wide — questioning, trying not to look away — and her heart thumped wildly in her chest, some part of her hearing him, _knowing_ , even as the whole of her did not.

He slid his hand to her cheek, his thumb brushing it, back and forth; she took in a shaky breath but still held to his gaze. “And you _—_ you are everything. You were my honor when I had none, my conscious when mine was lost, my strength when I was broken, beaten down…” 

Tears welled, blurring her vision. That she should know such tenderness now was almost too much, and part of her waited for it to end suddenly and coldly. And he knew — _he saw_ — and he did not remove his hand. Her tears spilled over at the weight of it, sliding down her face. Onto his fingers. 

_“Jaime…”_ her voice was barely a whisper; she didn’t know what she wanted to say — what she could say. He brushed at the dampness on her cheeks — pushed a small lock of hair back behind her ear. 

“Send me away and I will go. Tell me you don’t want me, I will accept it. But you are my heart and my soul and I won’t willingly turn away. If we had died in the battle and I’d never told you…” He shook his head. “I should have told you long ago.”

***********

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me -- just sitting here at the airport with tears falling onto my laptop, writing on this...! 
> 
> I lied; it's going to be three parts. I woke up at 3 am and decided I just had to bring them back inside to warmth before....well, you know. ;) 
> 
> I'm looking forward to working on part 3 shortly, from 30,000 feet or so -- which happens to be where I have been floating all week, anyway, so, as long as I don't have an ass for a seatmate, it should work out well. ;) Some work crap once I land, and then hopefully uninterrupted time to finish and post...and then we are off to 8x04 (hold me!!). 
> 
> Oh, and -- shout out to Novo Amor's "Repeat Until Death," which I have played on repeat sitting here, trying to drown out airport people. 
> 
> Much love to all of you who have read and kudoed (is that a word?) and commented! <3
> 
> Picking up right at the end of the previous...
> 
> * * * * *

*************

The impossibility of it all was dizzying and she felt lost — _surely_ all of this was meant for someone else. 

Jaime took her hand and placed it in the center of his chest. She could feel the beating there — quick and solid. _Real_. 

“I can’t change the past — I can’t take any of it back. But if you’ll have me at your side, I swear I will never hurt you. That I will always defend you.” He held her hand in place, as if by sharing his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his breath, he could make her see; make her believe. 

He searched her face —some part of her was still adrift. 

He took in a long breath; released it. “And…” his lips parted slightly in their shared gaze, his eyes speaking things she couldn’t read. “There are other things. Things I long to share with you. If you want them.” His voice was different, somehow, with this last — it was low and throaty, and she startled, gasping and pulling her hand away. She hadn’t meant to do it — not really. 

His expression fell and she could only watch, processing in slow time as he turned away, a helpless feeling washing over her. 

“No. Jaime, I… _Please…_ ” 

He turned back to look at her, and she could see he was half closed off now, steeling himself in a way that she knew so very well, herself. _It couldn’t stand,_ and she choked back a sob. 

“Jaime, I…I’m sorry. It’s just…I’m not…” 

She cursed her clumsiness with words. There he was, looking sad and vulnerable, rebuffed at the part about “other things” — and she knew full well, whether she could admit it openly or not. _He wants to be with you,_ some small, earthly part of her shouted — _pleaded_.

She closed her eyes, breathing strength, blinking tears away. 

“It’s hard for me, you know. To get past the part where I wait for the other shoe to fall — the joke to be revealed; the rug to be pulled away.”

She watched as he took in her words. Digested them. His demeanor shifted, something like a cautious flicker of hope washing over him.

He shifted to kneel close to her, took her hands between his — warm flesh and cool metal contrasting sensations against her skin — and he was painfully serious, a shade, a desperate breath away form tears of his own. “I swear, to the old gods and the new, I’ve no joke. No rug. And there is no other shoe. There is no _other_. Only you.”

Brienne felt a wave of dizziness, the unreality of it all making her feel weakened, physically, and she fought against a primal urge to flee. To hide until she felt strong again. Exactly no part of her had imagined this was how her day would go... She felt a brush of levity, thinking about it like that. 

“I should probably nail the rug down.” 

It was the last thing she’d expected to say. He laughed, a tear slipping down his cheek, and she exhaled and sort of laughed.

Then she stilled, sobering — a tightness settling across her chest.

_“Only me…”_

It was a question and a statement — a scant hope and a softly palpable dream. 

He nodded, affirming, and still she could hardly believe. “I want to be at your side, Brienne — wherever that may lead. And…I want… _you_. All of you. Tell me you don’t want that, too.” 

She watched his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, her heart pounding in her ears, her body aware — achingly aware of his warmth, his frame, just half an arm’s width away. She thought she might faint or die, overwhelmed, before she could respond, but then she was drawn suddenly, to the sensation of the cool, golden metal against her hand, and…

_“I do…”_

He shook his head, questioning. She’d whispered so faintly, he couldn’t hear her. Or maybe he just wanted her to say it again. 

She inched closer — some reflex outside her direct control, in the aching, knowing part of her — and when she spoke again, she looked at him fully, her heart exposed.

“I do, Jaime… _I do_ … I want that. _I want you._ I think I always have.” She laughed ever lightly, relieved at having said it. “Well. Maybe not _always_. But, for long enough now that I can hardly remember the time before…”

She wasn’t sure who closed the space between them first, only that they had both leaned in. And she couldn’t tell if it was a sob or a laugh or both, or from whom it came when their lips first brushed, but the end of their vacillating was like a deliverance from starvation. 

She had known that she wanted this, but it was only now, as Jaime kissed her — his desire a palpable thing she could touch and feel — that she _truly_ knew _._ She needed no urging to kiss him more deeply — to run her hands across his back, his neck, feeling him, drawing him closer. 

He broke away and stood, looking at her — so many new things written across his face; a second dawn after her long night. Still holding onto her hand, he helped her up to standing, too.

He smiled — joyous. Playful. “Come on,” he said, tilting his head at the trees behind them.

He led her into the woods by the hand, taking large strides she easily matched. 

He was searching now, looking over in the direction of the road and then the other way, scanning for something in particular. 

She was happy to go, to follow, but her heart was fluttering madly and her body felt warm, and she hoped they would stop soon and he would kiss her more, and…

The came to a small stream, and he seemed to know where they were then — or in what direction they should go.

“It’s this way.” He glanced back at her, explaining. “It was so late when I got here, I camped a few hours before going into Winterfell. It was just over this way.”

He led her to a grove of hemlocks, the ground beneath them soft. She could see the remains of a small fire, and the branches he’d used to rig a simple lean-to. 

He stopped and turned to face her, drawing her other hand up to hold them both between the flesh and metal of his. He grinned, a touch of sheepishness upon his face, but his eyes were bright and keen. 

“I stopped here, for a few hours, just before I got to you. I tried to sleep — I was worn out from riding so long — but I couldn’t. All I could think about was you. Not the dead, not the Dragon Queen, not my fate, whatever it would be, but _you_. I didn’t know how you would receive me — what you had been doing, if you had fallen in love with someone — I just knew that I had to see you. Be near you. If I could fight beside you, that would be enough. But oh, how I hoped for so much more…”

She blushed at his revelation and looked down at their hands, her fingers flickering over his anxiously. She thought about the years between them — how she had longed for him, dreamed of him, so certain he could never feel the same. 

And what could she say now that would be adequate? So often, her feelings had been defined by the intense absence she felt when they were parted, when it was like part of her was cut away, irreparable. She had imagined she would always feel that empty longing. But here she was — here he was, as real and tangible as the ground beneath her. 

“I died a little, each time we parted. I didn’t ever think…” She couldn’t stop tears from welling again, as she thought of that lonely girl, ever wanting — how much it had weighed on her heart over the years. 

“If there were really Gods in charge of such things, I would worship them devoutly for seeing fit to bring us back together now.”

He smiled at her, his tone wistful. “And, I don’t know — maybe we owe a debt to Ned Stark. We do carry, each of us, one half of his monstrous sword. Linked by steel, we are.” He lifted her hands and pulled her closer. “And a bear. And many nights camped under the stars, captives. _Captor_ and captive.”

She couldn’t help but to laugh — what a winding series of paths it was that had brought them here. And then she sighed, feeling a release of her melancholy. She thought about what he had just told her, that he had rested here, thinking of her.

As if reading her, he drew her in then, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against his chest. He held her tightly like that for a time, but then Brienne felt his lips at her neck, and she tilted her head — a motion automatic, somehow; inviting him. He kissed a soft, tender trail up to her ear and she trembled at the soft brushes against her skin — at the way it seemed to connect like a lightning bolt, to the warmth deep in her belly. 

“Gods, Brienne… I _ache_ for you…” he whispered at her ear, gently biting at it and she gasped, a near-sob. He moved back to her lips, and when his kiss deepened and he pulled her hips against his, she wanted more. _So much more._

“Jaime…” she breathed against his lips. 

“Mmm…I…” he exhaled, pressing against her, vitally. “Can I…come to your room tonight?”

She could only nod — _Gods, yes…please come…_

He laid his head on her shoulder now, and whispered at her neck. “I would, _here_ …but I think it would be better, if we could be inside, by the fire…our own space, and all the time we would want…” 

He drew back, grabbing her hands, and she felt an agonizing loss at his body no longer warm and firm against her. 

_“Can…can we go now?”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* I needed more time than I was expecting, to recover from 8x04 -- and now here we are, staring down 8x05. I am SCARED, you guys, but also...okay. Because I know that, no matter what, WE know how it should go for our lovely duo, and we will make it so, with many lovely, gripping interpretations of the future they should have. 
> 
> The other piece I just posted (Promise -- an 8x04 reaction piece) may ultimately connect to this one, but I'll have to see how things play out. 
> 
> This picks up right after part 2; written after I saw 8x04 (so...similar, but different). Oh -- and I switched up the last part of 2 a bit, where they will be going to _her_ room, just to be a bit more show-like, and because I realized he probably doesn't actually have a private space like she does...
> 
> Love to you all -- we will get through this! <3
> 
> * * * * *

His eyes were dark as they searched hers, drinking in her eagerness. He smiled, made some comment about being under her command that she didn’t really hear, and then he took her hand and led her away from the grove and back out to the open field beyond the woods. 

She felt as though she were drifting, dazed, as they made their way back to Winterfell, so much so that she didn’t really think about their hands still linked — the way he pulled her in to his side every now and again so that he could kiss her hair — while they walked out in the open. 

It was on his mind, though, when they got closer, and she startled when suddenly he pulled hand away. 

She looked at him, and he shrugged. “I don’t wish to… _tarnish_ your reputation…” He was matter-of-fact, not angry, but she could see the faintest touch of sorrow written in the lines of his face. 

“Oh, _please._ ” Her voice was cogent — fully present, now. She grabbed his hand back. She thought about how to explain that she didn’t care, was beyond such things. And then she thought of the people back at Winterfell who were kissing and touching in the passageways outside of the Great Hall and felt a certain giddiness, that she should be enjoying such things now.

“We fought the dead and we survived. I don’t think ‘reputations’ are at the top of anyone’s list of concerns this evening.” 

He laughed. “I’m sure you’re right, but — ”

“No more talk of it.” 

“As you command.” 

She scoffed, but pulled him closer. 

Their shadows were long as the sun dipped low in the sky — it would be setting soon; the golden hour upon them. Not far from the main gate they could hear partygoers in the courtyard, drunken shouts and laughter abound. 

Jaime pulled her against his side as they crossed the threshold of Winterfell, scorning gazes be damned.

As it was, people hardly paid them any mind. They were wrapped up in their own moments, their own waves of emotion and celebration — their own _carrying on_. 

They passed the kitchen, where a crowd of people gathered, loud and quite drunk, the lot of them. Jaime helped himself to a flagon of wine, waving it in front of Brienne proudly. She huffed but couldn’t help smiling. 

She was leading now, and when they rounded a corner and passed through a door to enter the near side of the Keep, Brienne found it suddenly harder to breathe. He followed her up a set of winding, stone stairs, and down a narrow hall, and she was certain her wildly beating heart must be audible to him. 

Her room was at the end of the hall — she stopped in front of the door and turned to look back at him. 

Some small part of her was still expecting him to laugh or run away — to tell her this was all just a joke — but looking at his eyes, his face, now, she knew with certainty he had other things in mind, and she willed herself to cast those old feelings away. 

As if reading her, he captured her lips, holding back nothing of his desire, and she gasped as her pressed into her, bearing her up against the door. 

He pulled away to reach for the doorknob, eyes locked on hers, and she covered his hand with her own, turned the handle, admitting them into her space. 

Her room was small, most of it taken up by a full bed, a small chest of drawers, a table and chairs, and a fireplace that covered the whole of one wall, but the space was hers alone. 

The fire was low but still burning; Brienne stepped to it and tossed a log in without thought. Her hands were shaking. She turned back to the room, to Jaime, trying not to make a show of her nerves. 

She nodded at him slightly as she saw him eyeing the single cup on her table, thinking she _would_ rather welcome a drink just now. He poured the wine, raised the glass and took a drink, then held the cup out to her. (And did _his_ hands also shake, ever slightly?) 

She drank, and drank again, passed it back to him, and he drank, stepping towards her as he did. It was almost gone after she drank again, and instead of passing the cup back to him, she put it on the table and closed the rest of the space between them. She was all fire and fervor as she kissed him, and he moaned against her mouth, entranced — claimed, fully, by the intensity of her, unleashed. 

And then she was fumbling with the ties on his tunic, tugging at it, wanting it away. Needing, desperately, to feel the whole of him against her. 

He helped her, raised his arms as she pushed the fabric up and off of him; tossed it to the floor.

She sucked in a breath as she looked at him, exposed from the waist-up. The bruises were large, deep black and blue across his shoulder, his upper arm. And there were cuts, some deep, healing but still red and raw on his neck, and in other places where a blade had gotten in between his armor plates. And she saw the bite marks she’d known he had on his side, some dead thing having attached to him there. 

She touched him gently, her fingers warm, tracing over the wounds on his arms and neck, then trailing down his chest to his stomach. He hissed as she brushed the bite area, and she pulled her hand away, but he pulled it back.

She undid the ties of her own shirt and let it slide away from her shoulders, and then off, tossing it aside — inviting him.

His breath caught in his throat when he saw the dark, angry bruises, the deep cuts of battle, written across her torso, her arms, their muscles taut and scarred. He’d known she was as wounded he was, but she could see angst in his eyes as he searched her, touching at the damage that had been wrought upon her body on what had seemed like the last night of the world. And he traced older wounds — the pale marks at her neck and shoulder…the long, jagged scar on her side — marks that harkened back to days that seemed so long ago. 

The recent wounds would fade against her flesh, joining the other scars, but they would never vanish entirely. They would be written across her forever — the marks of what they had endured; what they had survived. Marks of who they were — of their strength, their resilience. Their stubbornness, tenacity in the face of death. It seemed some impossible miracle, that they should be here still, now. 

He pulled her in, their wounds, their scars in mirror — their history, the ties that linked them so completely, was like nothing they had ever known. 

“We are meant to be, you and I,” he said, whispering against her neck. 

He drew his head back and looked at her, the full weight of his love and desire and _all the things they were_ bearing down. Her eyes welled — that she should know a thing like this. 

But even as a tear slid down her cheek, she was keenly aware of the tips of her breasts brushing against his chest as she breathed…and the warmth between her legs — the desperate aching there.

_“Jaime…”_ her voice was almost a whimper — she didn’t think she could survive very long, feeling like this — and then he was there, kissing her fiercely, drawing her hips to his, pressing against her. 

He kissed a trail down her neck, to her breasts, teasing at her nipples, and she cried out, her fingers gripping at his back. He continued downward, stopping only to undo the laces of her breeches. She helped him, pushing them down, and then her smallclothes, and she thought she would surely die as he sank to his knees and touched her as she had scarcely touched herself before. 

She didn’t know what would come next and she gasped, froze, when his tongue traced a path to reach the very center of her fire. “Gods…. _Jaime…_ ” she cried. 

He kissed at the tender flesh, lapping at her like a parched man in the desert. She was swollen, flooded with her desire, and she sobbed in the wondrous agony of it, her head tilted back, wild.

Her fingers were in his hair when she came, and it was earth-quaking — a torrent convulsing through her entire body. He held her tightly as she trembled, arm wrapped around her backside, his tongue still working at her as she cried his name, breaking — flying from peak to peak until she couldn’t possibly survive it any longer. And then she squirmed, her body impossible, shattered so thoroughly, and he released her, standing to catch her at the waist as her legs buckled. 

She held on to him, steadying, and tried to regain her breath. 

_“That was…”_ she panted, then thought better of speech. He looked rather pleased, something like a playful smirk, rhapsody in his eyes. 

When she came back to herself, she shivered. He pulled her in close, lending his warmth, and kissed her, his lips covered in her slick wetness. 

His erection pressed against his trousers, against her leg, and she wanted it — all of it. She reached for the ties around his waist, easily loosening them, and when he was free of the fabric, he drew them to her bed. 

She laid back onto the furs and pulled him down with her, on top of her, making no secret of her strength. 

He situated himself between her legs, his hardness brushing her as he kissed her, and she arched against him, wanting to pull him inside of her — craving to feel him filling her. 

He searched her face, as if looking for her full and final permission, but she was worlds past that point, only wanting him, completely.  She could only whisper. “ _Please_ … _I want you inside of me…_ ”

He needed no further urging, and she watched as he reached to position himself at her entrance — the urgent, one-handed clumsiness of it — and then he was pressing inside of her — slowly at first, but then she arched against him, drawing him in further. She flinched ever slightly as he penetrated her, but she had known pain; this wasn’t it, not really. He was gentle still, and then she drew her knees up, arched into him more, and then he was in her fully, to the hilt. 

They stayed like that for a moment, and he eyed her, looking for signs of distress, it seemed, but there was only her low moan, deep in her throat, as she shifted her hips, circling ever lightly against him. His eyes flashed with a heady animality, his delight at her eagerness plain, and she watched as he began to rock against her — gentle thrusts at first, then more firm; this one last earthly way they could be joined. 

When it was over, he collapsed against her, his face at her neck, and then he shifted to the side, leaving his arm, his leg draped across her. She could feel his pulse thundering in his chest, recovering, and his breath, rapid but slowing against her. 

They held on to each other, spent but present, as the fire crackled across the room. 

They slept some later, he rousing abruptly at one point, from a nightmare; she waking every now and again to feel him next to her, solid and real -- her heart full. 

They had survived the end of the world, and _now they would live._


End file.
